Episode Tags and Missing Scenes
by ArcAngel-liberty4all
Summary: This will be a collection of short tags to episodes or stories that cover events mentioned in the series but that we are not properly shown. Tag to 2x10, the conversation between Aramis and Porthos at the monastery.
1. Chapter 1

AN- Tag to 1x10, this is inspired by the idea that Milady was lying when she tells D'Artagnan "your friends left you to bleed out in the street". This story is a gap filler, telling some of what could have happened between D'Artagnan getting shot and the following morning, from Aramis's perspective.

It had all gone terribly wrong. The gunshot echoed loud and clear through the dark square, and Aramis expected a shout, a cry of pain, something from their impetuous young Gascon who he more than anything expected to be on his feet, and calling out Athos as some sort of monster as they had planned.

What he did not expect was this. D'Artagnan stumbling back and losing his footing, fainting back into Treville's arms, with Aramis helping to support him down to the pavement. The bullet had missed D'Artagnan's arm, missed it by a mile and instead Aramis's mind went slightly numb as he watched blood begin to swell and flow out of a whole in D'Artagnan's side.

Treville was speaking now, lightly slapping the boy's face attempting to bring him back into the world of the living and Aramis watched Porthos bring his hands, encased in a brand new pair of leather gloves, away from the wound for a moment before blood flooded forth even more abundantly than before.

In truth only a few seconds had passed before Aramis turned and looked over his shoulder at Athos. Athos's face had gone deadly white and contained the most horrid combination of guilt and anguish. Athos lingered but a moment, swaying slightly from the effect of the drink, before turning and making a run, which was more of a stumble from the courtyard in the direction of his lodgings.

Aramis knew without a doubt that should D'Artagnan die this night, they would lose not one but two of their friends, and with this thought he plunged into medic mode, boxing his own fears neatly to one side as he returned his attention to the patient before him.

Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket he folded it into a neat pad which he pressed on the wound.

"Keep pressure there please" Aramis said to Porthos, his calm tones betrayed nothing of the gnawing worry that he was struggling to keep confined in that small neat box, as he tugged his own leather gloves off and prepared to feel around the wound with his hands, to try and assess the damage, first through the skin, and then if necessary he would probe inside the wound with his fingers, a task that could prove almost as dangerous as the wound itself.

He gently lifted the D'Artagnan's shirt and reached up inside to feel around the wound.

"The bullet is lodged between two ribs, I believe that they are both cracked, provided I can stop the bleeding and extract the bullet, and barring any infections he should live." Aramis's words were short and to the point. "We need to get him somewhere I can work on him, somewhere close by, I fear the garrison will be too far for him to survive the trip."

"You can bring him to my lodgings" The three men looked up in surprise and Milady De Winter. Somehow in the confusion they had all forgotten the object of their plan. "It is only a few minutes' walk from here, provided you are able to carry him that far." Aramis swallowed his surprise and reluctance to follow the original plan and place their friend entirely at the mercy of this woman.

"Your shawl if you please Madame" She handed him the wrap without a word, an amused smile playing around her lips. "Could you lift him a little captain, I need to wrap this around his torso. Porthos keep the pressure on." Again Aramis found instruction's falling from his lips as he wrapped the shawl tightly around D'Artagnan's torso twice before tying it cruelly tight. D'Artagnan whimpered and moaned a little even in his unconscious state.

Aramis looked at the other two men. "We need to lift him together, it is important to carry him as smoothly as possible, this is more important than speed. If a jolt dislodges the bullet and it nicks and artery, or if one of the broken ribs splinters and punctures a lung I doubt even the kings physician would be able to save his life. I will take his injured side, Porthos you take the other, Captain if you can support his head and shoulders. On my count: three… two… one… lift!"

They drew several stares as their odd little group followed Milady through a couple of narrow streets, but even with the gentle pace they had set, it was less than three minutes before they were laying D'Artagnan down in a first floor bedchamber at Milady's lodgings.

In truth, once water and supplies had been fetched, it only took Aramis a few short minutes to extract the bullet, clean the wound thoroughly, stitch it, and bind his ribs but he felt utterly drained as he finished. And he had barely finished. D'Artagnan was just beginning to come round when Milady returned with a small, anxious looking physician in tow.

"As you can see, your _services_ are no longer required, I have brought a true doctor, you can return to the garrison with no stain on your conscience." Aramis stood, hating himself for complying with her wishes but knowing that if the plan was to have any hope of success at all then he and the others needed to leave. Aramis addressed his next words to the physician.

"As you can see I have extracted the bullet, stitched, cleaned and bandaged the wound. You will find he has a couple of broken ribs. The wound will need to be cleaned and the dressings changed come morning. Aside from that I believe all that needs to be done is to watch him for infection." Aramis was just reaching the door before he turned and added: "Oh and don't bleed him, he's lost enough blood already tonight." before sweeping through the door after Porthos and Treville.

It was as he was about to re-enter the warm night when he suddenly found himself back against the wall, and Milady standing so close to him that he could feel the swell of her bosom against his chest.

"I don't understand, that boy betrayed you, Athos rejected him and yet you still saved his life." Her eyes were flickering with curiosity, their catlike gleam so mesmerising that for the first time he truly understood how both Athos and D'Artagnan had been taken in by her charisma.

"Athos is and always will be my brother and my loyalty remains with him. However, it would go against my honour as a soldier to leave a fellow musketeer bleeding out in the street after a drunken accident. Athos's reactions were augmented by the wine he had consumed and his shock at D'Artagnan's betrayal. Besides, we both know that that bullet was intended for you." Aramis's words were cold and logical, and he thought he saw a half imagined gleam of hurt in her eyes before he swept past her into the warm night.

The three soldiers made their way through the still lively Paris streets in silence. Treville leaving them to make his way back to the Garrison, Aramis and Porthos, on ever quickening feet made their own way to Athos's lodgings.

The sight they found was not a pretty one. If the accumulation of empty bottles could be taken, Athos was now well into his fifth bottle of wine, slumped on the floor, an absolute mess.

"Oh Athos" Aramis's heart wrenched at the devastating scene before him, before kneeling by his friend and gently extracting the bottle from his hand.

"I killed him." They had never known Athos to sob, but this exclamation came fairly close.

"No, no you did not my friend." Aramis found himself cupping the older man's face, pressing their foreheads together. "He lives Athos! The bullet grazed his ribs but he lives. The wound is not a mortal one and by the grace of God D'Artagnan will live many years yet."

Athos was suddenly utterly vulnerable in his hope. "Truly."

"Truly, I myself was his surgeon. Now man, we need to sober you up, or how are we to implement this genius plan of yours in the morning."

It was with renewed hope that Aramis and Porthos set about the familiar task of sobering their leader up enough to pass muster come morning, and the grey light of dawn, filtering in through the window, went some way towards banishing the heavy shadows of the previous night.


	2. Chapter 2- 2x02 ARamis

AN- Just a short tag to 2x02, a missing moment between Aramis and the Dauphin. It is told from Marguerite (the governess') perspective and it has been revealed that she has much higher and more permanent hopes for the relationship than Aramis, so please understand where that detail is coming from.

Marguerite woke abruptly at three in the morning. This wasn't unusual for her, she was often woken at this time by a very demanding young Dauphin. What was unusual was the absence of crying, and the absence of a certain dashing musketeer in her bed.

She had been incredibly flattered when Aramis, supposedly a hero of several wars and incredibly handsome to boot had shown interest in _her_. This flattery and unsubtle interest he had shown her had suddenly been reciprocated in a more certain way after a couple of surreptitious trips to the palace library had confirmed her suspicions. That Aramis was one of the many Musketeers that were in fact younger sons of some of the more minor noble families, his full name being Rene Aramis D'Herblay, with an older brother already who was able to inherit their small and relatively unprosperous lands, and not one but five sisters to provide dowries for, only one of which was still unmarried, it was unsurprising that Aramis, as the younger son, had been sent off to make his own way in the world and provide for himself.

Regardless, it might not be quite the auspicious match Papa had hoped for her after securing her a position in the Queen's chambers, someone who was essentially a soldier, he was still noble, and despite his poverty, technically a step up from the wealthy merchant class she was a member of. He had chosen to pursue Marguerite after all, if he was only after a bit of fun then there were plenty of dissatisfied wives at court with questionable morals, most of whom would jump at the chance to bed the handsome soldier.

However the fact remained that the lovely Aramis was currently missing, and the Dauphin quiet; so marguerite decided that this unusual turn of circumstances simply had to be investigated. Silently she rose, blushing as she retrieved her nightgown from the floor. If anyone had caught her in bed naked in the morning it would be a certain give away of the previous night's activities, and her reputation would be ruined.

Now relatively clothed she padded lightly down the hallway towards the Dauphin's room, smiling as she heard a deep voice quietly humming as she approached. Marguerite had found her missing soldier.

She paused in the doorway of the room, gazing at Aramis, clothed only in shirtsleeves and breeches as he cradled the infant, his face glowing with a curious contentment in the flickering light left from the embers of the fire. He paced lightly about the room in stockinged feet, gently pacing around the room, as lightly as if he was dancing at a ball, cradling the infant in his arms, all the time his beautiful voice filling the room with a deep and gentle humming of some personal lullaby.

Marguerite smiled at the sight, he had mentioned he had a way with infants, but clearly it was more than just a gift, he was wonderful with children. She let her mind drift into a possible future, her sitting by the fire, perhaps stitching something, a household of their own, children running around playing with their father.

As he turned in profile to her Marguerite caught the look of love on his face as he gazed down at the now sleeping infant. The look seemed to light up his whole face and gave his already handsome features an almost saint like beauty. If he could love a strangers child this much, if he could be so gentle and kind with a child he had barely met and to whom his only connection was an oath of allegiance then how much more loving and wonderful a father would he be to his own children?

"What are you doing here?" To Marguerites astonishment Aramis's reaction upon spotting her was cold, almost hostile, while still quiet for fear of waking another.

"I always wake at this time. Usually the Dauphin requires my attention." Marguerite managed, feeling unaccountably guilty all of a sudden, as if she'd interrupted something sacred and special, when in truth she had just been doing her job. Suddenly the charm and easy smile that had won her heart was back.

"I did promise to take care of you tonight." Aramis said, dropping a kiss onto her forehead. "I will settle the Dauphin tonight, go back to sleep, I will be there when you wake up." Marguerite hesitated, she was tired, but Aramis had things well in hand, and if she was allowed a little more uninterrupted sleep who was she to complain.

"Alright" She smiled, and pressing a last kiss to Aramis's cheek she returned to her bed, thinking how fortunate she was to have such a caring and considerate lover.


	3. Chapter 3 - 2x03 Porthos and Aramis

AN- Tag to 2x03, a conversation between the musketeers about brotherhood and belonging while Porthos is recovering. It is fairly dialogue heavy.

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed/followed/favourites. Any feedback is really useful so please keep on reviewing and let me know what you think. If anyone has any ideas for missing scenes that they would like to see I am happy to accept prompts. On with the story.

Porthos had been in bed for two days, something he had protested heavily at first.

"My leg was well enough for me to stand and fight with you this afternoon."

"As your medic, I firmly believe that that was due to shock and adrenaline and you are very lucky that that activity hasn't laid you up for longer, as it is I'm saying three days for now and I'll reassess on an as and when basis. The knife ripped a hole in your thigh muscle Porthos, it needs time to knit back together without being jarred and exercised or the scar tissue will ensure that you never regain full usage."

When Aramis went into full on medic mode, despite the fact that he had no formal qualifications or training, Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan knew better than to argue with him, and knew for certain that suggesting he wasn't a fully qualified medic was simply off the table. In the early days when D'Artagnan had joined them, the Gascon in his confident way had asked Aramis where he had acquired the skills and how he could be a soldier as well as a doctor.

D'Artagnan had received the cold shoulder from Aramis for the better part of a week, before receiving some much needed instruction from both Athos and Porthos both telling him why what he had said was quite so insulting, and secondly advising him that his apology to Aramis should open with some sort of gift.

As it stood, Porthos was nearing the end of his second full day in bed, and to the utter surprise of his companions, he wasn't encouraging their visits. Now of the four of them Porthos was by far the most model patient when he was sick or injured, both D'Artagnan and Aramis were too restless to stay in bed for the length of time required, and Athos, while docile enough to comply with whatever instructions Aramis dished out once diagnosed, had the unpleasant habit of keeping any wounds or ailments to himself for as long as possible. Not that Athos would stoop to lying if he was asked a direct question, it was just in most circumstances a direct question had to be asked in order to ascertain any damage.

Porthos on the other hand, was sensible about these things, he knew his limits, and while he was willing to do many wild or crazy stunts in battle if required, or allow himself to aquire some minor bruises in a brawl on his time off, when it came to actual injuries, he was in general well behaved, even tempered, and pleasant to be around.

As usual Porthos's behaviour had been impeccable, aside from his one initial protest, he had remained in bed, allowing his friends to aid him with personal matters, and letting Aramis change his bandages and check his wound without complaint as often as the slimmer man felt necessary. It was his demeanour that was unexpected.

Porthos was at heart a soldier, and given this of course he could be dangerous, especially when angered, but he was also a model of self-control and a kind and good-natured person, far more than anyone had the right to expect him to be when he grew up in the cut-throat world of the court of miracles, but this kind, good natured person, appeared to have taken a holiday, leaving in its place a sullen, angry person, of few word who had taken to snapping at his friends when they came up to sit with him at meal times and in the evenings.

Needless to say, the others were concerned. Porthos was not usually one for brooding, that tended to be Athos' domain primarily, sometimes Aramis and on a couple of occasions D'Artagnan, but even Aramis, who had known Porthos longer than any of the others, had never known the man to brood, certainly not like this and not for so long.

It was Aramis who arrived first that evening, and he stood leaning against the doorway for nearly a minute waiting for Porthos to notice or acknowledge his presence before deciding to announce himself.

"You know, if you don't stop that soon Athos will become jealous" He commented from the doorway.

"Stop what?" It was more of a grunt than nicely enunciated words but at least it masqueraded as a civil reply.

"Brooding, Athos like to think he has the monopoly on it you know, with him being the strong silent type and all. He always gets put out when I start brooding; he positively scolded D'Artagnan when he attempted it as if our little gascon was an errant school boy instead of a fully-fledged musketeer and with you he seems baffled, maybe he worries that his behaviour is becoming contagious." Porthos scowled at his friend.

"I'm not brooding." An elegantly shaped eyebrow was raised.

"No? Well if you prefer the term sulking I would happily oblige, I do think it fits better personally but as we are pretending that you are behaving like an adult, I thought I'd call what your doing brooding." Aramis continued, keeping his tone light.

"I'm not sulking and I'm not behaving like a child!" Porthos had raised his voice so that it was almost a shout before realising that this was probably exactly what Aramis meant when he called out his behaviour. "Oh"

"Would you like to try that again without throwing your toys out of the pram, or shall we call your behaviour what it is and move on to the far more concerning matter of what is actually wrong." Aramis was trying for levity, but a crease simply appeared on Porthos forehead as he looked away.

"Porthos. Please, you have not been yourself these past few days, would you not confide in me what is troubling you, allow me to be there for you as you have been there for me on so many occasions." A flicker of understanding swept over Aramis's features. "Is it Samara, are you upset she chose to leave? Let me tell you my friend, as beautiful as she was, a woman who you only knew for a few short hours is not worth this much grief." Porthos let out a half laugh that was somewhere between a snort and a bark.

"That's a bit rich coming from you."

"So it is Samara. As beautiful as she is that fair lady is now making her journey to Morocco where I hope she will be very happy. It is what she wanted Porthos. You cannot begrudge her for choosing to make a new start after her friends from Spain treated her so badly, and anyway she…"

"She asked me to come with her." Porthos interrupted, his words quick and quiet.

"She? My friend you are not truly considering this? Porthos you cannot leave! Not for some lady you have only just met, no matter how taken she was with you." The horror in Aramis's words allowed a trickle of confidence to slip back into Porthos.

"It wasn't like that, not really, it wasn't love or romance or some passion like the ones you experience on what seems to be a nightly basis. It was something she said. At the time I just brushed it off, as something that would not be true for me, but she was accepted back in Spain, an honoured lady until suddenly a shift in power and they found themselves being betrayed by those closest to them, and I just worry…"

"Porthos slow down, what did she say?" Aramis was anxious, his friend was choosing not to make eye contact, instead looking down at his large hands, currently lying idle in his lap.

"She said that it was only a matter of time, that my friends didn't truly accept me, not really, not at the heart of it, and that at some point down the line you would all turn on me because of the colour of my skin. She said that Morocco was the only place I could be sure of being accepted, with my own kind." Porthos still didn't make eye contact, his cheeks coloured slightly in shame, although he was unsure whether it was shame at doubting his friends, or presuming on their friendship. It was all so unclear.

Suddenly Porthos found himself being wrapped in a hug, his head tucked under Aramis's chin. Slightly surprised he wrapped his arms around the younger man and found his hair being peppered with kisses.

"You stupid, stupid man." Aramis was saying, although the words held no malice, instead being said fondly with a hint of hurt. "We are your kind Porthos, soldiers of France, Musketeers who fight with pride and honour for our king. You are my brother Porthos, in every way that matters."

"And I suppose the bonds of blood are irrelevant then." Porthos murmured into Aramis's chest. Aramis stiffened for a second before pulling away slightly, so that Porthos could see his face.

"Did you know I had a brother Porthos? A brother by blood I mean." Aramis asked him seriously. Porthos thought back, Aramis often spoke about his sisters, his parents, his now numerous nieces and nephews who he visited a few times a year when he had leave, but a brother? Yes he realised, Aramis had mentioned him once, indirectly, mentioning that after the heir really there was no employment for a second son and that was why Aramis had been sent first to seminary, and then to join the army (although the latter probably had more to do with the shame his family felt about their potential priest who was only a few short years from taking his vows of celibacy getting a girl pregnant out of wedlock). Aramis family were landed gentry, not wealthy, not true nobility but respectable enough.

"Yes I think you did, but you never talk about him, not the way you talk about the rest of your family."

"And that is because my brother and I have never truly gotten along, I have made some attempts to repair the relationship but none have been welcomed. My eldest niece is nine years old, and although I have been a distant uncle who visits but a few times a year and communicates with them all sporadically through letters her entire life, I have had more meaningful conversations with her and know her better than I believe I have ever known my brother."

"If you don't mind me asking, why not?" Porthos was confused, Aramis was the most social of all of them, and loved more easily than any man Porthos had ever met.

"Frances is six years older than I, and while that age difference is nothing when compared with adults, for children is enormous. It didn't help that I was the youngest, the relative baby of the family, and my sisters all doted on me so whenever there was a disagreement between the two of us, which happened, not infrequently, all four of them would invariably take my side. Besides, Francis might have been the heir but he was not the oldest, and Henriette never had any qualms about giving him a good telling off when she felt he needed it, which didn't help his ego. I think the event that really stopped him from wanting to get to know me happened when I was about thirteen." Aramis was a skilled storyteller, and besides Porthos was curious, his earlier glum mood had now been significantly lightened, though not entirely forgotten.

"What happened?"

"I bested him in a duel, not a real duel of course, it was more of a sparring match really but he was terribly embarrassed. There he was, twenty years old, surrounded by his friends, who I suppose had styled themselves the popular crowd of our little town. Frances, being the heir of course, had been schooled in swordcraft since he was about seven years old. After much begging I had finally been allowed to take lessons at age 10 so really I had had three years of lessons to his twelve. He should have bested me and probably would have if he hadn't been so overconfident.

"There I was, still in my cassock from seminary school, running around the countryside pretending to be a knight, all elbows and knees as I was about halfway through a growth spurt, when I came across Frances and his mates and I challenged him. They all laughed and I think Frances was about to send me away, his embarrassing little kid brother, but his mates called him out on it. I think they thought Frances would just teach me a lesson and get on with his day.

"Anyway, Frances rose to the baiting and came at me quickly, and of course I had learned early to think tactically and use my opponents strength against me. He completely underestimated me, and to cut a long story short, it didn't take long before Frances was disarmed and on his bum in the mud with my sword at his throat demanding he yield, in that funny squeaky tone teenagers get when their voice is breaking. It took him years to live the incident down, and I think that is the humiliation which has prevented him from forgiving me."

"So he's still mad about something that happened when you were kids? Sounds a bit petty to me." Porthos was incredulous.

"He's not still mad about it I don't think, I mean he doesn't like it when someone brings it up. It's just that we never really became close. In truth, he may be my brother by blood but I don't know him anymore. When I go home he's little more than a polite stranger, and I don't think he's picked up a sword in years. We just don't have very much in common." Aramis had managed to get a little side-tracked. "My point Porthos, is that you are more truly my brother than Frances ever has been or will ever be. You have been at my side through the good times and the bad, and we both know, I was no picnic to be around in the bad times. We have bond of love, and trust and shared experience. I trust you with my life Porthos and I would never abandon you, just as I trust you to never abandon me. You are one of the truest men I have ever known and we are your home, we are your family, you belong with us."

An uncomfortable silence fell as Aramis looked imploringly into Porthos eyes, willing Porthos to believe his words. Porthos face relaxed into a smile.

"Come here." He said as he wrapped his arms around Aramis in a tight bear hug.

"And you promise you're not going to Morocco." Aramis said, his words slightly muffled against Porthos's shoulder.

"I promise I'm not going to Morocco." Porthos reassured him.

"Who's going to Morocco?" D'Artagnan had appeared in the doorway of the room, one arm filled with baguettes, the other balancing a terrine of stew and four bowls and spoons, closely followed by Athos who held the wine.

"No one." Aramis grinned as he stood to help D'Artagnan set down some of his load. "At least not anymore."


	4. Chapter 4 1x02Athos, Treville,D'Artagnan

AN- Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favourited. Please keep the reviews coming, as with many writers on this site I really value your feedback and I love hearing what you think of the stories. One of my main targets is characterisation, I am trying to keep it as accurate to the show as possible so please let me know how I'm doing on that front, what you felt worked, and especially when I missed the mark and you felt the characterisation was inaccurate. Thank you

Tag to 1x02, Sleight of Hand, The aftermath of D'Artagnan's experience with Vadim and some of Athos's musings on D'Artagnan. I'm using some of the backstories from the book as a basis for the history between the D'Artagnan family and Treville, although the events are my own invention.

Vadim's body lay on the filthy ground, his skin the unpleasant grey colour you do not usually find in living men. D'Artagnan stayed crouched next to him. He didn't move, staring at the body and while Athos's doubts about D'Artagnan's ability to do this had been somewhat assuaged when they found him alive and having come off better in a fight against the seasoned criminal, suddenly they came rushing back. In truth D'Artagnan wasn't a boy, not really, he was twenty four, and in truth Aramis at least was closer in age to D'Artagnan than to himself, being only 28. But the difference was that when Athos had met Aramis five years previously, Aramis was already a seasoned soldier having joined the military at just sixteen (after an indiscretion with a young lady had led to him being thrown out of the Seminary). A veteran of several battles, and his talent having won him a place in the regiment eighteen months before Athos joined, despite Athos's thorough military education and expert swordsmanship, there were some things which a soldier could only learn thorough experience, and it was from working with Aramis that Athos had been able to hone these indefinable skills, that soldiers instinct that let him know when danger was near.

But when Athos considered D'Artagnan, he was skilled yes, and had eagerly taken to what little training he had experienced so far while they assessed his suitability to join the regiment. But he was so green, he was a great conversationalist with a quick tongue in his head and he was buoyed up with all the arrogance and pride of a youth who had never considered his own vulnerability. The boy wasn't a complete innocent; he could hold his drink, relatively speaking, and was no stranger to hard work.

According to Aramis, the boy also had some fledgling skill when it came to seducing the ladies, although Athos had banned Aramis, almost to the point of making it an order, from encouraging D'Artagnan, as far as Athos was concerned, regardless of how much the boy might enjoy it, he was able to find more than enough trouble on his own without joining Aramis in the 'those who make strategic retreats from angry husbands on an alarmingly regular basis' club.

From what Athos had gathered, more from Treville from the boy, as the captain seemed to have had some acquaintance, the D'Artagnan's had been some minor gentry in Gascony, although fallen on hard times to make them closer to Gentleman farmers in recent years. D'Artagnan had been given a gentleman's education but there had not been the money to send the boy to court to find a career there, or even to squire with some of the more important local nobility, as was the tradition. Instead the boy had been needed for labour on his family's farm, and from what Athos could tell from D'Artagnan's character he had probably been bored senseless.

Most of the time D'Artagnan seemed to fit in, he had managed to slot into their little group almost seamlessly, and Athos would definitely be giving Treville a positive recommendation after this, as would Aramis and Porthos, D'Artagnan may have been a touch too reckless for his liking on this little outing, and that was something he would have to address in training, but D'Artagnan had certainly surpassed expectation. And he had demonstrated the maturity and intelligence necessary to become a musketeer, it was even easy at times to forget how green D'Artagnan was, so effortlessly had he managed to join their little group. But it was those times when his youth barely showed that made the other times, the times when D'Artagnan came across as stubbornly, _impossibly_ young, far more potent. And this was one of those times.

D'Artagnan was kneeling next to Vadim's body, a slightly shell-shocked expression on his face, and in the grey afternoon light the blood dried blood that plastered his hair to his head and stretched down his forehead was sickeningly obvious. Vadim was not the first man that D'Artagnan had killed, Athos knew this, but he was probably the first man that D'Artagnan had killed that he had ever had a conversation with, that he had ever really known on a level that was not a desperate struggle against the other for life. It was difficult to see how D'Artagnan was taking it, other than not well.

Aramis was there now, having said his quiet prayer for Vadim's soul as was his custom, he was kneeling in front of D'Artagnan, drawing the younger man's eyes away from the corpse in the mud. Athos felt the familiar poison of guilt swirling around his stomach and clenched his jaw. It was over, they were all alive, D'Artagnan, Porthos, himself, even Aramis after his foolish stunt where he threw himself over the bomb, and it was ok. What was left to do was to take care of D'Artagnan and learn what had actually happened in the night they lost track of him.

"D'Artagnan, are you alright?" Athos asked, the young man still hadn't risen from his crouch, and Aramis's expression, to those who knew him well at least, held hints of worry.

"I'm fine." The words sounded a little distant, and Athos felt a familiar fond exasperation sweep over him.

"If you want to be a Musketeer D'Artagnan, the first thing you need to learn is that one thing we do not do is lie about our injuries. The mission is over and we need to know how badly you are hurt so that you may get better and return to training. During a mission it is even more important as we need to be able to adapt for and cover any injury in a potential conflict. Injuries are common in our line of work D'Artagnan, they are not weaknesses, but hiding them, especially if it could lead to someone else being hurt, is beyond stupid. Just this once I will do you the curtesy of asking again, and think carefully before repeating that half-truth as it is perfectly clear that at the very least you have a concussion."

Athos inwardly winced, it hadn't been his intention to sound like he was scolding an errant child and yet that was exactly what he had done.

"My head hurts, and my back, a bit." D'Artagnan said, he had turned a funny grey colour and seemed to be trembling.

"Can you stand." Aramis's tone was more gentle. D'Artagnan nodded and rose to his feet, only to pale even further and sway. He would probably have fallen had Aramis not caught him, one arm wrapped snugly about the other man's waist to keep him upright. "It's okay, I've got you", he reassured the young man as D'Artagnan struggled to take some of his own weight. "Were you caught in the blast?" At D'Artagnan's nod he continued. "You're going into shock, chances are you didn't even realise you were injured until just now from the adrenaline. We're going to take you back to my lodgings, you're injured, and technically still a wanted man so you can lie low at my place for a day or so while we sort out your pardon." Athos watched D'Artagnan nod, a slightly dazed expression on his face as if he hadn't fully understood what Aramis was telling him. As a precautionary measure Athos took the young gascon's left arm and wrapped it around his shoulders so that he was taking some of the boy's weight.

"We should get him to the horses quickly, before he's spotted by a red guard." Athos murmured, and they moved as quickly as they were able through the Palace towards where their horses were tethered, Aramis and Athos more carrying D'Artagnan than D'Artagnan was supporting his own weight. Thankfully the trip was uneventful, and D'Artagnan had enough sense about him to mount the horse with little trouble, as the leg up from Athos and Porthos's steadying hands around his shoulders launched him into the saddle. Before they knew it they were hurrying through the streets of Paris at a gentle canter, Aramis riding behind D'Artagnan to steady him, it was when they got back to Aramis's lodging's that the trouble started. The plan was to get D'Artagnan upstairs, and then Athos would return to the garrison to stable the horses and give a report to Treville before re-joining the others.

It was not the first time one of them had been injured, and the manoeuvring a semi-conscious person out of the saddle was one they were familiar with, as was passing down an unconscious man into the waiting arms of his brothers. They were not however the same manoeuvre. So when Aramis dismounted behind a still semi-conscious Gascon and started to help the boy manoeuvre into Athos's waiting hold to support the lad upstairs, it was a complete surprise to all three of the elder musketeers when half way through the change in elevation D'Artagnan lost consciousness completely and tumbled into Athos's waiting arms.

Now D'Artagnan was not overweight, more he was very slim, almost bordering on too slim depending on who you asked, and his frame had not quite broadened into a man's just yet, but he was also just over six feet tall, male and most of his slight bulk was muscle. Whichever way you look at it, however light for their height they may be, six plus foot of adult man is not an insignificant weight, especially when it's a dead weight and almost completely unexpected. So it was that Athos ended up stumbling wildly, just managing to find a balance where he kept the Gascon from falling and jarring the injuries that were no doubt present, but holding him in such an awkward position, that it would be impossible for Athos to stand upright from without dropping the boy, whose feet were draped awkwardly across the floor, not taking any of his own weight. Aramis and Porthos burst out laughing.

"A little aid would be appreciated, gentleman." Athos said, his breath short from the effort of keeping the gascon from sliding to the floor in a graceless heap. Porthos stepped forward and lifted the gascon with an enviable ease onto his shoulder.

"I was taught to fight like a gentleman, he said." Porthos chuckled taking advantage of the comic moment to help alleviate some of the worry the three were feeling, "I wonder where he was taught to swoon like a maiden into his hero's arms."

"I am not his hero, don't be ridiculous." Athos's words were short, although he knew that D'Artagnan was most likely exhausted and his fainting nothing to worry about his heart had still jumped into his mouth when he moved to catch the boy. And anyway, he wasn't suitable for anyone to put on a pedestal.

"Athos my friend, it is plain as day that he idolises you, any advice that comes out of your mouth he treats as if it is more sacred than the bible." Aramis tossed back to Athos as he unlocked the door of the house.

"Don't worry the hero worship will wear off once he gets to know you a little better." Porthos added, "the whelp's to full of himself to suffer from hero worship for long."

The door closed behind the pair as they took D'Artagnan upstairs.

When Athos returned to Aramis's lodgings an hour later, with Treville in tow, it was a very different mood.

Aramis and Porthos were quiet, although they both stood to attention when the captain entered. But Athos's whole attention was taken by the unconscious gascon lying on his stomach on Aramis bed, shirt off and sound asleep.

"Has he not woken?" Athos demanded, nausea at the boys condition swirling inside him.

"He woke for long enough to fill in the gaps for us, then I gave him something to help him sleep." Aramis, ever the medic replied.

"But his back… what happened?" This was Treville, having been the gascon's advocate for the entire enterprise, pushing D'Artagnan to take the mission, now looked slightly nauseated at what he had done.

D'Artagnan's back was one huge, dark bruise, not a mottle of bruises, just the one. Aramis took a breath before replying.

"It's a blast injury. Turns out he was a lot closer to the gunpowder than any of us thought. Vadim had him tied to the barrels, it sounds like he only just managed to get out of there in time."

"What's the damage?" Treville had regained his business like composure as that little revelation sank in.

"It's hard to say for certain, he could move fine at the Palace so I don't think there will be any permanent damage, but it is likely that the swelling will put pressure on his spine which may restrict his movement some for the next week or so." Athos took a breath, it wasn't as bad as he had feared.

"And internal bleeding?" Athos was almost hesitant to ask, while the prognosis remained relatively good.

"Unlikely, or if there is it is a minor bleed that shouldn't prove to be life threatening. He's not showing any of the symptoms of a man whose bleeding out so he should be okay." Aramis smiled suddenly, "He's going to be fine Athos, he'll probably object to having to stay in bed for the next few days, but he'll pull through just as impetuous as he was before." Athos felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders as he found a seat. Treville sat himself at the foot of the bed and looked at the unconscious young man for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face.

"You never did tell me how you knew D'Artagnan the elder." Athos prompted, more curious than wanting to fill the silence.

"You knew D'Artagnan's father?" Aramis was surprised and intrigued and Porthos no less so.

"I did, I also met this one before, although if he remembers, he doesn't connect the man he knew then to me."

"Now this is a story I must hear." Aramis settled himself on the ground against the wall, long legs stretched out as an obstacle to any who might wish to pass.

"I served with Alexandre D'Artagnan in the army when we were both young recruits. We were as close as brothers. Then he retired from the military for family obligations, he married and, the evidence of his marriages prosperity is currently occupying the bed. We were as close as brothers when we served and kept in touch up until a few years ago, for no particular reason. We both just became too busy I suppose.

"Anyway, a time came when I was injured, and facing a long recovery of several months, my sister offered to take care of me, but she was heavily pregnant and I knew I would just be in the way, so I went to stay with Alexandre for a few months, and well D'Artagnan the younger was there, although to his family he was called Charles so that was how I knew him."

"What was D'Artagnan like, how did you first meet him?" Aramis had taken over the prompting for the story.

"Well my first meeting with D'Artagnan was actually remarkably similar to your own. I had just arrived, and Alexandre was just about to help me inside when that one came charging into the courtyard and challenged me to a duel."

"Ah, D'Artagnan, always so dramatic! What had you done to offend him so much?" Aramis asked, all three of the musketeers had burst out laughing at Treville's announcement.

"I don't think he had worked that out, he was more eager for the fight, but he was about seven years old and armed with a stick so it was more amusing than intimidating. His credibility was then further undermined by his mother rushing out of the house and giving him such a scolding. I think she was mortified. She had heard a good deal about me from her husband and my first impression of her was her disciplining her son for being rude to a guest. In the months I stayed there D'Artagnan and I became fast friends but I doubt that he remembers me now. He was excited to meet a real soldier, apparently Alexandre didn't count. Believe it or not, I was young D'Artagnan's first sword instructor."

The tension in the room had evaporated and there were now smiles all around, at hearing what D'Artagnan had been like as a child.

"Well you clearly gave him a very sound basis, the boy is remarkably skilled with a blade, although I would imagine raw talent has something to do with it."

"More than something, D'Artagnan took to sword fighting more easily than anyone else I have ever taught. I promised Alexandre, that if I taught him I would keep his son safe. Now D'Artagnan comes to Paris and the first thing I do is send him into danger." Treville's light mood had fallen again.

"As much as I was against sending D'Artagnan in, the boy has proved his merit. He has clearly proved himself resourceful and capable and a fine candidate for the musketeers." Athos assured Treville. "He has not come to any real harm and will be fine in a few days. Besides he will do better in the musketeers with men who care about him, and live a far more fulfilled life than he would have on a farm in Gascony. He will be happier here. You're taking care of your friends son by being a good captain to him, as you are a good captain to every man in this room."

"Well said, I have rarely heard Athos make such a long speech, and I agree with every word. I would like to think that Alexandre D'Artagnan would be proud of the man his son has become." Aramis added.

"If he isn't we are, we've only known the whelp a few weeks and look what he's doing already. There is no doubt that D'Artagnan will be a fine soldier one day soon. He just needs training up a little." Porthos added.

Treville smiled briefly at their words, his guilt lifting slightly at the belief in him from three of his finest men.

"I'd better go to the palace, he's still a wanted man, and I believe it would be a good thing if he was not by the time he woke up." Treville said standing, before nodding a farewell to each of the men and leaving the room, as its occupants settled in to keep a vigil over their newest member.


	5. Chapter 5, Anne

AN- Again thank you to everyone who has followed favourited and reviewed. Especially those who reviewed, I love hearing what you think, and constructive criticism, pointing out where you feel I missed the mark a bit and things that could be improved is every bit as useful as hearing what you liked, so please keep the reviews coming! In the story from Marguerite's perspective Aramis sings a lullaby to the Dauphin, and if anyone is interested I have taken the fragment of lullaby Aramis sings in the episode and extended it to a song with piano accompaniment. It feels a bit self-indulgent but I thought I'd mention it and if anyone is interested in hearing it, let me know in a review and I will record it and put it on youtube, and post the link in the next chapter.

Thank you to for the prompt, the prompt was Anne telling Louis that she is pregnant but it has turned into more of a character study piece on Anne's perspective on some of the other characters, especially her relationship between Anne and Aramis, and Anne and Louis. Part of the reason I wrote this was to get to know and understand Anne a little better, who will make an important appearance in the next chapter of my story _A Grave Miscalculation, _which is all Aramis angst based around an alternate version of 2x04 Emilie so if that sounds like something you'd enjoy, please read it and let me know what you think.The quote Anne thinks of is from Shakespeare's _Richard II_, the "No matter where, of comfort no man speak" speech in Act 3 Scene 2. Warning, sex is referred to in this chapter, but there is no graphic detail.

P.S. sorry for the marathon Authors Note

Anne has taught herself not to get her hopes up too much when her bleeding is late. It is not unusual for her periods to come as much as a week or ten days late, or similarly early, especially in times of stress, and the past few weeks have been unusual to say the least.

She no longer truly believes in the healing or fertility powers of the spring, after all she has been going there for the past six years and still no baby. It was at Louis' suggestion that she first went, and now it has become more of a holiday, a peaceful ride for a few days through the countryside there and back, followed by nearly a week of relaxing in and around the water with her ladies.

This time was different, this time there was an attempt on her life, and she cannot help but wonder if it has something to do with her inability to produce an heir. She thinks it probably does, Louis is young and healthy and likely has many years left but without an heir things are always uncertain. A line of poetry comes unbidden into her head, _For within that hollow crown keeps death his court_, an English poet she thinks, from a play about civil war and a monarch being removed from power. That king had no heirs either she realises, and the thought makes her shiver.

She also stepped outside her bounds truly and completely for the first time. She does not like to think of her influence over Louis as overstepping bounds, he is her husband and her king and she will never contradict him in public, but she finds, as long as she uses tact, she is able to speak freely in private, and have more influence over his decisions than perhaps a queen should. She is ashamed to admit it but she has come to realise that her husband is not a strong king, not really a king at all in the true sense, but instead a puppet, and the country is ruled more by Cardinal Richelieu, herself and to a lesser extent Captain Treville as they play the intricate dance of influencing Louis while pretending that his decisions are his own.

Louis is dear to her, there is no doubt about that but he is a dear friend, and their night-time fumbling's are so awkward and dutiful, always taking place in the dark that she imagines that he is as unenthusiastic about the whole matter as she is. Despite him being a few years older than her she looks on him more as a younger brother whom she needs to protect from the reality of the world. Although sometimes she wishes, in secret that as a king, Louis had a little more in common with her elder brother, the King of Spain. Spain was a strong kingdom because it had a strong king, and a wise one, who listened to advice fairly but never let it overrule his own agency. Philippe had become king when Anne was still a child, and when she was sent off to marry King Louis of France at age fourteen, her French passable but by no means fluent, she had naively assumed he would be a king like her brother, strong, athletic, wise for his years and fair. She thought that was what a king was, and her brother had acted as more of a father to her anyway.

To her shame she found Louis a disappointment; he was sixteen at the time, two years older than herself but more of a child. A child who seemed to hide behind his mother's skirts, a manipulative woman who was determined to keep her son a child, incompetent, indecisive and unable to make his own decisions so that she could continue to rule through him until well past his majority. When Marie De Medici's attempt at a coup had failed, Anne had hoped that Louis might grow into himself and become his own man, but the void she had left had quickly been filled by Cardinal Richelieu and Louis was as much a child as ever.

And then there was Aramis. Aramis her brave knight whom she had admired from afar, whose pretty words and selfless actions had saved her life more times than she could count. She had started noticing him months ago, and had developed what she had tried desperately to dismiss as a schoolgirl crush. She tried to ignore the way her heart sped up when she noticed him nearby, and tried desperately to suppress the hope and longing that fluttered in her chest when she noticed him watching her.

He was off limits she had reminded herself, a soldier, below her rank, and more importantly than that not her husband. She was aware that many of the court ladies, who had been pressed into arranged marriages conducted affairs which ranged from extremely subtle, to a secret which everyone knew about but politely ignored. But there was a large difference between adultery and treason. When a lady of their rank was accused of adultery she could find herself cut off from her children, and income, or sent out of sight to some relative in the country or a convent. Anne had no doubt in her mind, were her indiscretions discovered, it would be treason, and no matter how reluctantly. Louis would order her execution, and Aramis's.

That long day spent riding through the woods in his arms was incredible, and despite the very real threat facing them, and her worry for her ladies, still camped at the spring, settled safely in front of him, his strong arms wrapped about her, she felt completely safe, and simultaneously in incredible danger. Here was the man who had proved time and time again that he would give his life for her without a second thought, and now they were truly spending time together, she found herself able to talk to him. She realised that he trying to keep her distracted from the very real danger they were in, but the conversation had been real, at times light and amusing as he exaggerated tales of heroics on the battlefield, admittedly helped by the interjections of the other musketeers. But the conversation had also delved deeper, and she found herself engaged in an intellectually challenging discussion about religion, he being far better read on the subject than herself, and she was viewed as a pious queen.

They talked of everything and nothing, and she realised that Aramis was not only charming with no true substance to his personality, as so many at court were, but intelligent, genuinely affectionate and loyal. As often as they could have been alone in their conversation, her affection and dare she say love for Aramis deepening with every facet of his personality that emerged; she found herself an observer to a banter and camaraderie between the four musketeers. More brothers than comrades in arms she realised, that she felt privileged to witness. Rarely had she seen such true, reciprocal and uncalculated friendship, the friendships made between people at court were often as strategic as they were honest, often more so.

And then there was the night at the convent. The day was a dream, a wonderful holiday from real life and the reality of court politics. Something unconventional, but then so were the circumstances, so permissible. She could not possibly fool herself into thinking that the night was allowed.

She had not intended it to happen, not intended to commit treason, for there was no sense in dressing the act up in flowery words, whatever excuse she made, however much she believed it to be true love it was still, ultimately a betrayal. But however little royalty was designed for true love, like any young woman she had dreamed of it, and now, she dared to believe that she had found it. She had to believe that she had found it, that she had not betrayed France for a mere flight of fancy.

She and Aramis had connected on a deeper level than she and Louis ever had. In their grief over a lost child, something she knew more truly than Louis had ever realised. The first time she had become pregnant, Louis had known, and he had been happy in the manner of a child who was to receive a new toy. When she had lost the baby it tore her soul apart, the unimaginable void of losing a child had consumed her completely, and she found herself utterly disappointed and alone. Losing a child is never easy, she knew that, but she had expected her shared grief with Louis to bind them closer together. It had not.

Louis had reacted to losing the child in anger, the same way a child might react to having a favourite toy taken away, and she realised that the child had never been real to him, but merely an abstract concept. He did not know what it was to love someone you couldn't yet see, to feel them move inside you and realise that they were a person, actual and whole and your whole world and then have them ripped away. She thinks she has been pregnant twice since then, a period of six or seven weeks without a period, feeling nauseous in the mornings, and her favourite treat, a luxury from the Spanish colonies that she had developed a taste for as a child, that rich bitter drink called chocolate, had suddenly become abhorrent to her. This followed by a night of heavy bleeding, and awful cramps, something she had claimed as a period, and refused to see a physician for. She believes that she has lost three children, but the only one she can be certain of is the first, she thinks to know the truth about the other two would break her heart.

Then there was Aramis, and for the first time in her life she felt as if someone else was able to truly understand and connect with the grief she felt over losing a child. And they had made love, a term that felt far more appropriate for what she and Aramis did than Louis's night time fumbling's.

It had been special and long, and she found herself lifted up to an ecstasy she had never felt before, and she realised how right they were for each other as she looked into the eyes of one so beautiful and brave, and she marvelled at the love she felt for him, love that appeared to be reflected in his eyes, eyes that seemed to appreciate her and worship her, the way no man had before.

When they lay together after that first time, a way she never had before, naked and unashamed, moulded into his side as if she was made to fit there, she felt the guilt and worry slip back, she loved Aramis, but she was a good catholic and had spent what could be her last night on earth betraying her husband, committing treason. They do not speak about it then. She allows herself to express some of her worry by voicing the smallest one.

"Aramis."

"Yes, Anne" She had felt a small thrill rush through her at hearing him say her name, rather than address her as her majesty, as she had each time he had said it that night.

"I don't understand; why didn't it hurt?" He turned his face to look down at her where she was nestled against his shoulder and he lifted his free arm to gently brush her hair out of her face, a slight frown appearing.

"What do you mean?" He murmured.

"It didn't hurt. It always has before." She said, somewhat embarrassed now.

"Making love isn't supposed to hurt. If it hurts it means your partner is prioritising their own pleasure, and hasn't taken the care needed to make sure you enjoy it as well. Sex is reciprocal, when it isn't often neither party has a good time. Has Louis never made sure you enjoyed it?" The way he says 'Louis' and not 'the King' makes it feel a little less like treason, although it is odd to talk of another man while in bed with Aramis.

"No. No he hasn't." Anne admitted, "When he comes he's usually a little drunk, and then it's short and painful, and he rarely even kisses me, and he leaves as soon as he's finished." Aramis face tightens a little, she wants to think that it's jealousy that Louis has a right to be with her that Aramis doesn't in the same way, she wants to think that it's anger that her husband treats her so poorly with so little care for her own needs, but in truth she is not sure what it means and falls silent.

"You are wasted on him, Anne, but he is the king and you are bound together in the eyes of God. It seems so wrong that he does not appreciate you." So it was anger then, and jealousy and as much as she desires Aramis's happiness she feels a little flutter of satisfaction at being so valued by the man as to inspire jealousy and anger on her behalf. "There is a theory", he murmurs, "that if a woman does not take pleasure in the act of lovemaking, and is not satisfied then it is impossible to conceive. Perhaps you should tell that to your selfish husband, maybe that will make him appreciate you more."

After the second time they make love they lay, not so much cuddled but tangled together in a mess of sweaty limbs and slightly damps sheets, boneless on the bed. A fleeting thought passes her mind that the nuns might have heard them, but in truth she cannot remember whether they were loud or quiet and she lets the moment go.

"I've fallen in love with you, you know. Not as a subject should love his queen but as a man loves a woman, and that is not something I would say unless I meant it. It's been happening for months, and now I have known you truly a person and as a woman I am even more certain that I love you." Her heart lifts at his words.

"I feel the same, I tried to convince myself that it was a schoolgirl crush, a flight of fancy, but as I have grown to know you more and more, as a man, and a scholar and so much more than the brave selfless soldier I already knew you to be I have become more certain of it. Getting to know you these past few days I realised that what I felt for you was true. And it is not merely because of the wonders that you have shown me tonight because I knew you and loved you before our first kiss." Anne feels tears gather in her eyes as she admits the feelings that have been bursting inside of her.

Aramis gathers her in his arms and kisses them away before looking at her honestly.

"Then for the sake of our love we should keep our distance." She almost cries out in protest but for a gentle finger pressed against her lips. "I love you, and you love me and we know this, and we have had each other tonight and as much as I love you and desire nothing more than to be with you, to hold you in my arms, this is dangerous. You are the Queen, Anne, were anybody to discover we would both be executed for treason. I have had liaisons with married women before, Anne. Women who I was fond of, and who I even loved after a fashion but none for whom I felt as strongly as I do for you. At first we will be careful, but as we grow more and more confident in not being caught we will grow gradually more careless and with us that would mean death for us both. You are intoxicating Anne, and I do not believe my feelings for another have ever truly matched what I feel for you. I love you. I love you with my heart and my soul and my body in every way a woman should be loved and deserves to be loved. But do not ask me to condemn you with my actions, with our actions. We have had tonight, but for our own safety we must keep our distance."

She is weeping now, it is a speech that could have been a tactful rejection but she can feel the strength with which he holds her, sense the anguish in his voice, sense his love for her as he kisses away tears with lips barely holding back a sob. She feels his honesty, and sees the wisdom in his words, and she promises. They have tonight though, so they curl around each other and sleep, each safe and content in the other's arms.

It is only when she looks back the next morning, having woken to find Aramis dressed and loading pistols in the next room, that she realises that they spoke to each other in Spanish last night. It makes it easier, she realises. She speaks to him in French now and they are once again the Queen and the Musketeer, with that formal distance between them. A formality secured by titles and a language that makes it safer for them to interact.

When she returns to Louis she takes him to her bedchamber at sunset. He is her husband, and if her liaison with Aramis has consequences she would prefer to know for certain. She whispers to the king a secret, one she claims was told to her by one of her ladies by the spring, that sex if pleasurable is more likely to produce an heir; she can no longer think of it as making love, not with Louis, not after Aramis. What follows in the golden light of the sunset; she leads and guides Louis through a new way of having sec. it is an improvement on anything previous she has had with Louis, but she lies back frustrated at the end. Aramis has spoiled her, she realises. She is the one who dresses this time, after all, dinner has not yet been served, and she cannot quite bring herself to lie and whisper secrets with her husband, not after Aramis.

When her bleeding is late she feels a little jump of hope, of anticipation, and of realisation that if she is pregnant, the chances are it is not her fertility that was a problem but Louis'. If she is pregnant the baby it is more likely than not that Aramis is the baby's father. But she has taught herself not to get her hopes up too much.

When she starts waking and feeling nauseous immediately she is more certain. When the smell of hot chocolate makes her stomach turn she feels like she knows, but she keeps quiet. It could simply be an almost pregnancy like the others; something easier to think of as her being mistaken, and simply having a far longer than usual gap between her bleedings than acknowledging that she has probably lost more than one child.

When Aramis and his friends bring their suspicions to her about the Cardinal's involvement in the attempt on her life she welcomes the distraction, and relishes the opportunities to be near to Aramis and speak with him, in all the safety that company allows. They have several meetings to plan the Cardinal's downfall, and she finds herself respecting all of these men, not solely Aramis. Each and every one respects her opinion and values her insight, rather than politely dismissing her thoughts because she is female.

Her belly does not quite start to swell, not yet, but there is a firmness there that was not before, and she confides in her maid that she thinks she could be pregnant, before swearing the girl to secrecy, and enjoying the freedom of not having her corset laced quite so tightly.

By the time of her confrontation with the Cardinal she is almost certain, it has been nearly four months since her night with Aramis at the convent. She lets this knowledge inspire her and when she dresses the Cardinal down, it is with all the authority of her status as queen and the confidence that not only her condition, but also the regular meetings with the Musketeers over the past few months and the confidence they hold in her. And so it is with the respect of everyone in the room that she is able to firmly put the cardinal in his place.

Aramis offers her his arm to escort her back to her chambers, and as she takes it, touching him for the first time in months, she thinks she feels a quickening. The baby is moving inside her. Aramis looks at her concerned when she stops and asks her what is wrong, but she finds a smile on her face and tears gathering in her eyes as she shakes her head and laughs.

"Nothing, nothing at all." When she takes his arm again she feels the baby move. She is certain now, not simply that she is pregnant but that Aramis is the father, and she almost breaks every rule of conduct to kiss him and tell him right then about the baby. But she remembers herself just in time. And by the time she leaves him at the entrance to her chambers she is lost in her own thoughts.

She speaks to Louis in private, just before they eat lunch. The servants are not in the room, and they are alone.

"I think I've known for a while, but I wanted to be certain without a doubt before I told you for fear of disappointing you, Louis." She says, taking his hands. "I'm with child Louis; I'm going to have a baby." She notices afterwards that she should have said we. Louis takes her face in his hands, looking excited and astonished.

"You are certain." He says.

"I am certain, I felt the baby move this morning." She assures him. And then he laughs and lifts her up and whirls her around in an impulsive display of affection that seems wholly out of character, before putting her down abruptly.

"Oh, did I hurt the baby, was that bad?" He seems suddenly so unsure that she laughs.

"The baby is fine." She assures him. He is a little shell shocked.

"I'm going to have a son." He says, "I'm going to have a son." And he places a hand protectively over her stomach. She smiles reassuringly at him but the child is still.

Later, after her less than subtle conversation with Aramis, where she is certain that he has understood that himself, and not the King, is the father of her child, Anne retires to her room and curls up on her bed, a sadness at the situation overwhelming her.

"There is" she attempts to believe, "a possibility that the child is Louis's"


	6. Chapter 6- 2x06 Aramis, Athos

AN- As always thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed etc and a plea to keep reviewing and keep letting me know what you think, what worked, what didn't work etc and of course I welcome any prompts or ideas you might have.

Tag to 2x06, _Through a Glass Darkly_ The aftermath of the episode as the musketeers care for Aramis, whose injuries are more serious than he lets on.

The Queen was safe, the Dauphin sleeping in the arms of Marguerite, the King rescued and his brothers unharmed. Aramis felt a twinge of guilt at his thankfulness that Rochefort had sent his Red Guards to check the perimeter rather Porthos, D'Artagnan and himself. The bodies of all three had been discovered, tossed in a heap along with the bodies of the murdered courtiers, all three had been killed differently but each had been attacked from behind in the manner of a murder or an assassination rather than a fair fight.

It was over, he realised, Marmion's remaining guards had been swiftly dispatched once the musketeers had entered in force, and they had survived. He let out a long breath, suddenly bone tired and a stab of pain ran through the back of his skull, causing him to sway dizzily for a moment, closing his eyes against the sudden spinning of the room. When he once again felt secure he opened his eyes again and cast a cursory glance about the room, no one had noticed his brief spell of weakness, everyone's attention was on the king.

Aramis found himself near the back of the group as the king stormed down the corridor, passing the now murdered body of Marmion, killed by Rochefort, who as far as Aramis was concerned, had somewhat less reason to be angry than almost anyone else present. The King was raging up a storm, casting Milady De Winter out of favour, although Aramis missed the reason having been absent through Milady's departure and her return had remained unexplained, as did why she was wearing the uniform of a musketeer. The King also raged at D'Artagnan, which was both worrying and probably unfair, as D'Artagnan took his duty as a musketeer more seriously than anything and Aramis found it very unlikely that he would do anything at all to endanger the life of the king.

Aramis tuned out of the conversation, now the adrenaline of the battle was wearing off his leg was throbbing and his knee ached. He had not taken the time to take stock of his own injuries before climbing the tower wall, so set had he been on rescuing the Queen and the Dauphin, the Queen and his son as he thought secretly, and any additional pain he would now experience from that was worth it for they were safe. They were all safe, he reminded himself.

The walk up towards the carriages, a hill he would barely have noticed had he been hale, now seemed arduous and long, although he worked to keep a smile on his face. They had survived. He reminded himself, besides it wouldn't do for a musketeer to show weakness before the king, especially not when the musketeers were in so little favour. He pinned his best charming smile onto his face and met the Queen's eyes as he bowed to her.

The throbbing in his leg increased with a vengeance as they waited for Constance and D'Artagnan, and he smiled through the pain. After all he was genuinely happy for them, and it wouldn't do for the 'romantic hero type' of the group to be seen wincing when everyone else was open heartedly welcoming the sight of the young lovers, but he couldn't help but wish for them to hurry up a little.

It felt like an age before he was able to turn and mount his horse. He rested his forehead against her neck for a moment, fingers tangled in her mane as another spike of pain stabbed through him, obscuring his vision.

"Aramis."

"Aramis."

"Aramis!" Aramis glanced up at the sharp, but not loud tones. Athos was looking at him with some concern. "Aramis, we are about to depart. Do you need my assistance to mount?" Aramis was agog for a moment.

"Why would I…?" He began, his mind slightly foggy.

"You have been limping since I first laid eyes on you nearly an hour ago, you have been trying to hide the pain you are in and you have been leaning against your horse for nearly two minutes. Fortunately the King is preoccupied with the Dauphin and has not yet noticed." Athos's tone barely disguised the concern he felt for the younger man. Since being informed of Aramis's death by his dear lady wife Athos had been struggling to contain a grief. Although that feeling had turned to relief on discovering that Aramis was alive, Athos was still extremely worried for his friend who was obviously injured, and by all reports had somehow survived a fall of some thirty feet, which should have killed him outright.

"Athos, I'm a Musketeer, not some maiden…" Aramis was going for indignant, charming but the tone came out tired and slightly petulant.

"I know this. My question was not whether you desired me to aid you in mounting, but whether you needed me to." Athos was quick to assure him. Aramis's cheeks reddened slightly and he made eye contact with a slightly bent blade of grass as he mumbled:

"Yes" Athos nodded briefly, before continuing.

"Then let me help you quickly so that we do not make a scene." Athos knelt and Aramis placed his foot into his friend's hand, and with a wince and a swift disorientating move, Athos launched his friend safely into his saddle.

The world turned grey again and Aramis was overcome with an overwhelming sensation of dizziness and nausea, and realised that he might have a concussion. He swallowed quickly and attempted to regain control of himself. He would not vomit or collapse or embarrass himself in front of their Majesties. Not with the king in the mood he was in. When he finally opened his eyes again, he found his hands tightly gripping the pommel of his saddle and Athos's hand on his arm, steadying him, and Aramis imagined, that was it not for Athos's hand, he may have taken a humiliating face plant off his saddle and into the dirt.

Athos mentioned none of this and merely nodded before mounting himself, and falling into formation behind Aramis. Aramis now noticed Porthos and Treville giving him worried glances. Thankfully D'Artagnan had not noticed, seemingly having eyes only for Constance.

Once on the road, riding behind the royal carriage Athos said to him. "As soon as we get back to the Garrison, I'm checking you over, and Treville will send for a physician. Do not even think to argue with me about this, you are clearly injured and as such will undergo a medical examination. If you need to stop on the journey there tell me and we will pull out of formation. There are enough men in this guard to ensure their majesties safety without us." It was clearly an order, although Aramis's headache was growing and it was as if he had heard it through cotton wool or as if underwater.

Aramis at first made to nod, but when the movement sent a sharp stab of pain through his skull he settled with saying. "I won't need to stop."

They made it back to the Palace where the Royal Carriage and the people within were handed over to the care of the musketeers stationed there. Thankfully Aramis remained oblivious to the worried looks shot his way by the Queen, Constance, and Marguerite. However angry Marguerite was, she remembered that Aramis had just saved her life, and couldn't help but worry for the clearly injured soldier. It wasn't in the King's nature to notice anything other than his own displeasure, and so he remained oblivious both to Aramis's pain and his wife and her companions worry for him.

Though the trip from the Palace to the Garrison was a short matter of just over a mile, it was here that Aramis faltered completely. The stabs of pain shooting through his skull had gradually become more frequent over the previous few hours as they had ridden back to Paris, and by this point his focus was less on riding his horse, than keeping his seat and trusting his horse to follow the others. About half way between the Palace and the Garrison, a particularly vicious stab of pain drew a small cry from his lips before he found himself losing consciousness, completely, falling forward as he fainted.

Were it not for Athos's watchfulness, Aramis would most likely have fallen from the saddle completely and done himself further injury on the stone cobbles. As it was, upon seeing his friend start to fall Athos lunged over, stopping Aramis's motion with an arm hastily thrown around his waist, the other hand tugging on the reins to stop the horse, bringing his own horse to a stop with a sharp dig of his heels.

"Aramis." He called urgently, trying to keep the fear from his voice. "Aramis, you must wake!" But the young man remained stubbornly unconscious and unaware of his surroundings.

"What happened?" Treville was there now, standing on the other side of Aramis's horse. Porthos and D'Artagnan, still mounted but having turned to look, at the commotion, worry evident in their expressions.

"He won't wake, I fear he was injured worse than we thought." Athos started to explain, before addressing Treville. "Can you hold him in the saddle sir, I'm going to mount behind him and ride ahead to the garrison?" Treville nodded, and with some care, Athos slowly transferred Aramis's weight to the man he still thought of as his commanding officer. Aramis was sickeningly limp, a completely dead weight with no signs of awareness, at all.

As soon as Treville was securely holding Aramis, Athos swung himself down off his horse, and walked round to swiftly mount behind Aramis, pulling the younger man back so his weight rested against Athos's chest.

"I'm going to ride ahead to the garrison, Aramis clearly needs a physician, can someone get my horse?" The words were barely finished before Athos burst into a canter through the streets of Paris, people dashing left and right out the way of the quickly moving horse so as not to get trampled.

When they arrived at the garrison, to his dismay D'Artagnan was the one given the task of stabling the horse, including Aramis's mare who stood patiently in the yard, while the others rushed up to the small garrison infirmerie.

Aramis was laid on a bed, very still and deathly pale. Athos was holding him so he lay on his side as he slowly and gently ran fingers through Aramis's hair, plucking shard after shard of glass from the thick curls.

Without needing to be asked Porthos took Aramis's weight, gently supporting his head so that Athos could continue his work. Still Aramis did not wake.

They discovered a large gash opening the back of his head, still filled with tiny delicate shards of glass, all of which had to be painstakingly removed. The procedure must have been painful, but Aramis did not even twitch, not through the extraction of the glass, nor through the cleaning of the wound with alcohol, nor during the stitching.

At some point during this process D'Artagnan arrived; pale faced and concerned. It occurred to Athos that he had never seen one of his brothers rendered so helpless by an injury before. Even when Porthos had been badly injured by the axe during the incident with Bonnaire he had remained awake and talking for the most part. D'Artagnan was clearly no longer the apprentice musketeer, having grown significantly in both maturity and skill during the past year or so since he had received his commission, but it was moments like these, that though worrying to himself, Porthos and Treville; were taken in their stride as seasoned soldiers who had lost many dear comrades in the line of duty, that Athos was reminded quite how green D'Artagnan was. Though completely capable, D'Artagnan had not as yet seen the brutality of a battlefield, nor lost a close comrade. Athos prayed that Aramis would not be the first.

They stripped Aramis down to his underwear, rubbing a salve that Aramis had made up himself at another time, into the bruises that covered the whole back of his body. They wrapped a swollen and clearly sprained knee in cold cloths, and located a heavy box and a pillow so that it might remain elevated. Still Aramis showed no sign of waking.

The next evening, Aramis had still shown no signs of life. Athos and Porthos had taken over the majority of care for him. Treville had also sensed how disquieted D'Artagnan was by seeing the lively Aramis so still and cold and sent him on patrol duty, as supervisor to a couple of new recruits that had not yet won their commission, hoping that the responsibility would take his mind off things.

During the day that had passed, Athos and Porthos had coaxed Aramis into swallowing some water by supporting his head and trickling it down his throat, massaging his adam's apple as they did so to ensure that he swallowed the water and did not choke on it. Twice they had changed the sheets and their comrade's clothes, spreading an oil cloth on the mattress to guard somewhat against repeat occurrences, silently agreeing never to mention this to Aramis, who would be mortified. It was very worrying that Aramis's unconsciousness was so deep as to prevent him from waking for his bodily needs.

That evening, they had some broth sent up, it had been nearly two days since Aramis had eaten anything at all, and they could wait no longer for him to wake and feed himself. Instead they set about coaxing as much of the broth as possible into the man, in the same manner they had with the water earlier.

"We need to do this twice a day now, until he wakes." Athos informed Porthos, though there was probably no need to. The fact that the "until" should probably have been an "if" at this stage went unmentioned, but not unnoticed. Porthos felt a tightening in his throat, unable to make eye contact, as he nodded, choosing to look at Aramis, rather than make eye contact with Athos.

It was then that D'Artagnan rushed in, just back from his patrol.

"Oh he's woken up!" D'Artagnan was looking at the empty broth container. "That's good." The relief was evident in his voice. Of course Athos thought, the boy must have expected Aramis to wake at some point during the morning, as head wounds rarely left a person unconscious for longer if the person was to survive. Athos looked at the boy evenly for a moment before glancing at Porthos. There was a tightness about Porthos's features that Athos had only seen very rarely in the years they had worked together, but knew to signify the man to be trying to suppress tears. There would be no help from that quarter at the moment. Decision made he stood and approached the door, donning his hat as he went.

"Walk with me, D'Artagnan." For once the obedient soldier, D'Artagnan did so. They walked some way from the garrison, and kept going until they found themselves leaning on one of the walls overlooking the Seine. Never one to suffer silence for long, D'Artagnan broke it asking:

"What did I miss? Clearly something's going on."

"Aramis has not yet woken." Athos's tone was clipped and to the point. D'Artagnan frowned in confusion for a moment before replying.

"But that's okay, isn't it? Aramis said people can be unconscious for varying lengths of time after a head wound, everyone's different and you shouldn't worry too much…"The gascon was rambling a little, drawing on everything Aramis had taught him to try and make the situation ok again.

"What Aramis probably hasn't mentioned, is that if the unconsciousness persists for a long while then there is a chance that the person will never wake. Aramis has been unconscious for more than a day D'Artagnan, we can only assume that he is in this state. We are not without hope, but the longer the unconsciousness persists, the less likely it is that Aramis will wake up." Athos tried to be as gentle as possible, but there was no true way to shield D'Artagnan from the harsh realisation his words contained.

"What can we do?" Ever a man of action not of words D'Artagnan had gone straight to the practical.

"We can care for him, roll him over to prevent bed sores from forming, feed him broth twice a day so that he does not starve to death before he is able to wake. We can move and stretch his limbs so that they do not atrophy. Some cases have been recorded where the person in question woke up and had been able to hear some or all of what was said to and around them, so we can talk to him, read to him, remind him that he has something to live for. We can pray for him, Aramis is a man of faith and that faith I believe runs deeper than any of us can truly comprehend. He lives by the most amazing luck and far more often than I would wish or advise he attempts suicidal manoeuvres and comes out the other side of them without a scratch. Aramis has some of best and worst luck I have ever seen; we must not forget that he was injured by surviving a fall from an incredible height, which we still do not know how he managed it. I believe that his luck will hold true and he will come out of this, you must believe it too D'Artagnan. Have you ever met a man who lives as vivaciously as our Aramis?"

"I… no, I don't think I have" D'Artagnan replied.

"Then believe, as I do, that he will survive this." Athos told the young man, who was looking rather shell shocked. The truth of Aramis's condition had not been an easy pill to swallow.

"I think I need a few minutes." D'Artagnan finally managed.

"Take as long as you need, we will be waiting at the garrison when you are ready to return."

"I… when we left them at the Palace yesterday, Constance asked to be kept informed of Aramis's condition. She could see that he was injured. I had been hoping to let her know when he had woken, but I think I should tell her." The words came out in a rush.

"By all means, take your time. Constance should know, and as I said, we will be at the garrison when you return." Athos was privately relieved. If D'Artagnan told Constance, then the Queen would probably find out in private and her reaction would not give away Aramis's indiscretion.

Upon returning to the sick room Athos politely ignored the signs that Porthos had broken down in his absence.

"How did the boy take it." He asked quietly.

"As well as could be expected I suppose; he is still processing the news. I don't think it quite sunk in in our conversation. He has gone to inform Constance, who will no doubt be a far greater emotional support to him than I would." Athos went to pour himself a cup of wine, absently noticing that he had been diminishing his stock with a far greater speed than usual over the past couple of days.

"Don't sell yourself short, he adores you. At times he idolises you although he is beginning to get over that now." Porthos remarked casually.

"That is I believe some of the problem. God knows I am far from perfect, I have my demons. I am not what you would call emotionally available either. When he has struggled in the past either you or Aramis has always stepped in to manage him. Mostly Aramis I believe. Sometimes I still feel D'Artagnan is trying to impress me, although he has more than earned my respect, I don't believe he would let himself break down and deal with this around me, however much he needs to. He is proud, our Gascon, but in some ways he is still very young." Porthos nodded and the two men slipped into a comfortable silence, passing a bottle of wine between them as the evening stretched into night.

Just over a mile away at the Louvre Palace, D'Artagnan found himself sobbing into Constance's shoulder, unable to contain his grief at Aramis's condition. They were in a private room in the Queen's apartments. Constance eyes were also leaking tears, but as she knew Aramis less well of the two of them, she resolved to be the strong one and support D'Artagnan through this.

It was very early the next morning when Porthos woke to the grey light of dawn. He had been in a light watchful sleep, as the door opened. Despite the relative safety of the garrison, his closest friend lay helpless on a bed, with no way to protect himself should the need arise. As such Porthos had silently appointed himself to be Aramis's protector.

A tall hooded figure slid silently in through the door. The hood lowered. It was D'Artagnan.

"I tried to persuade them against coming." He said softly, "but they were insistent so I thought it better that I escorted them than they come without a guard." Porthos was about to ask who, when D'Artagnan stepped aside and two smaller figures, both hooded entered. Upon lowering their hoods Porthos recognised Constance, and the Queen.

"Your majesty." He murmured, darting up and into a bow. "Athos." He hissed. "Athos! The Queen's here." Athos jerked awake with a start, staring around with blurry eyes for a moment as he took in the situation, before he too rose and offered a courtly bow to the Queen.

Anne only had eyes for the frighteningly still man on the bed. Even in sleep she had never seen him this lifeless, her secret lover, the father of her child and the one she had given her heart too.

"I needed to see him. He risked so much the other day to save me and my son I just…" She trailed off, usually so sure of speech she found herself grasping for words. "Might I have a minute alone with him? Constance will be our chaperone." Athos nodded graciously, and he and Porthos rose and moved to vacate the room.

"We shall be just outside if you need anything your Majesty." Athos said, his gracious courtly manners coming to the fore. Despite his unease at the situation giving his knowledge of Aramis's relationship with the Queen, he could not deny a direct order, nor could he refuse her majesty this kindness, not when she looked so heartbroken at the possibility of losing him. It was this which made Athos pause at the door to say.

"There is some evidence, your Majesty, that people in a deep state of unconsciousness, such as Aramis, can hear what is going on around them. If you wish to speak to him, I am sure he will listen, even if he is unable to respond."

Several minutes later when Constance and the Queen emerged, as he had the previous night, Athos politely ignored the evidence of tears on the young royal's face. Instead he graciously offered to escort them back to the Palace, so that D'Artagnan might stay, and made no comment about Aramis, except to assure both women that should his condition change, he would send someone to inform them immediately, and failing that he would come himself.

Three days later Aramis woke. It was nearly midnight and the fire was burning low. D'Artagnan stretched out like a cat in front of it, dozing lightly. Porthos was quietly and methodically cleaning one of Aramis's pistol's, a task he had already completed several times over the last few days, but it kept his hand's busy, and no one pointed out that it did not need to be cleaned again when it had not been fired. Athos was reading aloud, subscribing to the theory that there was a chance that Aramis could hear what was going on around him.

All three of the men, at various moments alone with Aramis had made their own heartfelt pleas for him to wake up over the past few days, needing him to understand.

As it was Athos sat reading a French translation of Morte D'Arthur, not his taste, but a text Aramis favoured hence the reason for the choice. "They both laughed and drank to each other; they had never tasted sweeter liquor in all their lives. And in that moment they fell so deeply in love that their hearts would never be divided." He read softly in the candlelit room, when Aramis moaned. The expensive book dropped from Athos's hands to the floor.

"Aramis." He said urgently, willing himself not to have imagined the movement. "Aramis. Can you hear me?" He had rarely waited so ardently for a reply. Then Porthos was there, lightly gripping one of Aramis's hands.

"Aramis, if you can hear me squeeze my hand. You're safe, you're with brothers, please just wake." Porthos's anxious face broke into a wide smile.

"He's squeezing my hand. He's waking up!" He said, before turning back to the slowly stirring man on the bed. "Aramis you have been asleep too long. It is time to wake up."

D'Artagnan was there now, stood leaning over the edge of the bed. "Aramis, don't keep us waiting. You need to wake up." He said a hopeful smile splitting his face.

Aramis's eyes cracked open a little. "Athos? Porthos? D'Artagnan?" He murmured, his words slurred and distorted with sleep.

"It's us Aramis. Here can you take a little water?" Athos spoke again, sliding an arm smoothly round Aramis's shoulders as he gently lifted the man slightly so that he could drink. Aramis was able to take some sips of water, before being lowered back to the pillow and slipping back to sleep.

Both D'Artagnan and Porthos looked anxiously to Athos. Athos didn't know why, he thought, in a way that would have been grumpy if he hadn't been quite so relieved, he didn't have a significantly greater amount of medical knowledge than the other two.

"I believe he has fallen into a more natural sleep now, and will wake again soon." Athos assured them. "Now if you will excuse me, I promised to deliver a message." With that he stood, fully intent on seeing Constance, if not her Majesty, and letting them know the good news.

It was a slow recovery for Aramis, he found that he now experienced migraines, something he had never suffered from before, and the residual weakness from nearly a week in a coma left the active man both frustrated and exhausted as he worked to regain his strength. Some of the memories from the day he had been injured also continued to elude him, and he found himself unable to remember anything between charging in to rescue the king with Porthos, and waking in the garrison. However slow, it was still a recovery, and with his brothers to help him, it was a joyous day nearly a month later, when he was once again allowed on to light duty. A wonderful day, celebrated that afternoon with guard duty at the Palace, where he could watch the Queen, Constance and his son from a respectful distance as they played together in the grounds, and in the evening with suitably copious amounts of alcohol, and entertainment as Porthos made a tactical retreat from a group of red guards who had caught him cheating at cards.

Yes, Athos thought, as he watched Aramis's laughing face at the show he was sure Porthos had induced, they were all alive, and it was a good day.


	7. Chapter 7- Porthos (POV) and Aramis

Summary: tag to 2x10, the conversation between Aramis and Porthos at the monastery.

AN: For all intents and purposes, this exists separately to my other fics as I'm pretty sure I have changed Aramis's age for narrative purpose, choosing a number closer to the age of Santiago Cabrera. To everyone following, 'A Grave Miscalculation' It will be finished, I promise, I'm just dealing with a little writers block as to how to resolve the situation between Athos and Aramis.

'One at a time' They had been told, Porthos almost felt like fuming. They had arrived at the monastery, determined to see Aramis; after all they were riding to war on the morrow and time was of the essence.

When they had arrived at the monastery however, they had thundered into the stillness of the courtyard a taciturn older monk had taken their horses; one who had no idea who they were talking about when they asked for Aramis. Eventually he had left to speak with the Abbot. In reality this meant fifteen minutes of waiting in a too hot courtyard; admittedly with a cool; lemon flavoured drink that had been provided for them. Eventually, the monk had returned to them and revealed that Brother René, who had previously been known by the nom de guerre 'Aramis' was in private prayerful reflection before beginning his novitiate. It was unusual, the monk had told them, for this to be interrupted but seeing as they were here in so much of a hurry they would be able to see him one at a time.

It was not exactly the reunion Porthos had hoped for. He had imagined Aramis coming out to meet them and realising that fulfilling his oath to a God Porthos had always found distant and judging could wait until after he had accompanied his brothers to the Spanish border and fought along their side one last time.

"He is within" The monk announced as they arrived at a plain wooden door, indistinguishable from any of the others along that corridor. "He is not expecting you, it will be a surprise. When you have finished, return to the courtyard and show the next musketeer how to reach this place.

Suddenly Porthos was nervous, and he had not anticipated being so. He had been certain, or so he had thought, of Aramis' response once asked to rejoin their brotherhood. As the steps faded away, he knocked boldly on the door and without waiting for a reply; opened it.

'I've got the wrong room', was Porthos' initial reaction. The cell was plain, bare, a simple pallet and a small table with a single drawer before the small window, a cross set upon it. Before the table, knelt on the cold stone floor was a monk in a black robe, shorn head bent in prayer, familiar latin words falling from his lips.

"Sorry to disturb you, brother. I was looking for my friend, Aramis, I mean, Brother René." Porthos suddenly feeling awkward and too large for the small chamber. Religious figures had always made him uneasy, as if they could see that he had long since given up reciting prayers to a God he had never experienced. The awkwardness increased as the monk stopped in his liturgy, crossed himself and stood.

"And you have found him," Aramis's melodious tones emerged as he turned to face him. "Or does a hair cut change me so much that you don't recognise me." Now Aramis faced him, Porthos recognised him instantly, but the lack of a beard and hair shorn short changed the look of his friend dramatically. His face seemed rounder somehow, softer, more honesty and less carefully choreographed charm.

"You were just hiding your face, Aramis, I mean brother, I mean..." The attempt at humour fell flat as Porthos stumbled over what to call his closest friend. Aramis read the situation and responded as adeptly as always, taking control as the two old friends renegotiated how to relate to each other in this stranger circumstance.

"I will always be Aramis to you my brother, but in general practice I have abandoned my nom de guerre now that that chapter of my life has come to a close." Porthos felt a frisson of unease slip through him at how comfortably Aramis seemed to have cast off his life as a musketeer.

"What happened to that goatee you were so proud of, my friend. I never thought to see you without it?" Porthos managed, teasing a little as he sat beside his friend on the plain wooden palate.

"There is little room for vanity when doing the Lord's work, my friend; but tell me, why did you come? I am happy to see you of course, but I have not even been here a full week, I have not even written a letter yet, so as you can imagine, it is something of a surprise." Aramis' tone was warm, kind, inviting, more at peace than Porthos had seen him in months and Porthos suddenly felt horrifically guilty at what he was about to do.

"War has been declared with Spain." He said, guilt flooding him as the peaceful air left Aramis, replaced by a haunted look and strain which Porthos had seen all too often in recent months. "Treville has been promoted to Minister for War and Athos is the new captain of the musketeers. We ride to meet the host tomorrow as we ride on to battle. It is our hope that you will ride with us." Porthos looked steadily at his friend, the man he knew so well now unreadable in the newly unfamiliar shape of a shaven chin.

"The others are here?", Aramis asked quietly.

"Did you think they would stay away?" Porthos grinned back, a sentiment that was not returned.

"No I suppose not", Aramis murmured, turning his gaze to the cross by the window. "Porthos, you are my dearest friend and you will always be my brother but I cannot go with you." Aramis said gently looking Porthos straight in the eye. "I made a vow to God and I will honour it."

"The monastery will still be here when you return, you are one of the best soldiers in the regiment, you cannot leave just as war is announced." Porthos felt incredulous.

"If you recall I left before war was announced and I am surprised that you expected me to jump at the chance to fight a war once again against the country of my mother."

Porthos suddenly found the guilt returning in an unpleasant rush.

"I am sorry my friend, that was unkind." Aramis murmured. An uncomfortably silence stretched between friends acutely. It had been a long time since it had been awkward between them.

"Do you know how old I am, Porthos?" A hint of bitter humour played around Aramis's tone.

"You know full well I don't." Porthos grumbled affectionately. "You've given me a different answer every time I've asked. You said 27 when we first met and at your last birthday you drunkenly assured me that it was your 26th. I can hardly be blamed for not knowing if you don't tell me."

"I suppose not." Aramis grinned, "but I will tell you now. I am thirty four, my friend. I am saying this so you understand, I joined the army straight out of seminary school when I was sixteen. I have been a soldier for over half my life and I have both seen and dealt enough death to last more than a lifetime, and what is more I found exhilaration in it when to kill another person goes against the essence of Christ our Lord's fundamental teaching, to love. This is not the first time I have grown weary of the soldiers life, you know this, you were there with me after Savoy, but never before have I had such compelling reasons, both logical and spiritual to follow through with my decision.

"I will always be your brother, Porthos. My prayers and my letters will travel with you, I just cannot be with you in person this time. Few men are soldiers forever my friend, it is merely time for me to move on." Aramis finished, the reason and conviction behind his words painfully clear.

"Don't say it like that, it sounds as though you died or something." Porthos joked, pushing humour through the pain he felt at the rejection, no matter how well it was the right choice.

"Well I suppose in a way it is, the death of Aramis, or at least his retirement, so that Brother René may live." Aramis's tone was carefully light, but no steel was needed in his resolve so comfortable was he in his choice.

"I'm not going to change your mind, am I?" Porthos asked, standing. Aramis stood with him, and embraced him.

"You are not, but the pain in my decision is and will always be the physical separation from you, and Athos and D'Artagnan. You are the truest brothers I have ever known and I will be with you in prayer and spirit, if not in person." The embrace tightened for a long moment, before Aramis stepped back and squeezed Porthos's upper arms.

"Come, I will walk with you to the courtyard and say goodbye to Athos and D'Artagnan, a blessing for the road ahead as well I think." Aramis stated as they started out the cell and down the corridor, Aramis deftly navigating the maze the monastery seemed to be.

"You think they will understand?" Porthos asked.

"Athos will, he knows what it is like to move onto another stage in your life, D'Artagnan, I am not so sure about. He might be too young, after all, he has never seen war, and as both you and I know, war can change people."

"I think D'Artagnan may have more understanding than you think."

"And why is that?"

"He got married." Porthos grinned looking forward as he strode on, before stopping abruptly as he realised Aramis was no longer next to him. He turned to see Aramis stood in the centre of the corridor with his arms folded, his expression confrontational.

"Did I miss anything else, I wonder?" Aramis asked, sarcastically. "Prehaps, the court of miracles has been declared an independent state; or maybe the Seine has been sanitised. War has been declared, Athos promoted and now you tell me that D'Artagnan is married. I've been gone less than a week, were you all just waiting for me to leave. I'm almost offended."

Aramis maintained his straight face for another two... three... four seconds, before cracking into a smile. Incongruously to their surroundings, laughter erupted from the pair and the sound of friendship echoed down the halls of the peaceful monastery.


End file.
